Constance Fenimore Woolson

by Constance Fenimore Woolson

  “Do you leave your work unfinished?” I said, with some curiosity, noticing that she had folded her hands without even hanging up her towels.

  “We do nothing after the evening chant,” she said. “Pray go; he is waiting.”

  “Can we have candles?”

  “Waiting Samuel allows no false lights in his house; as imitations of the glorious sun, they are abominable to him. Go, I beg.”

  She opened the door, and we went into the passage; it was entirely dark, but the man led us across to our room, showed us the position of our beds by sense of feeling, and left us without a word. After he had gone, we struck matches, one by one, and, with the aid of their uncertain light, managed to get into our respective mounds in safety; they were shake-downs on the floor, made of fragrant hay instead of straw, covered with clean sheets and patchwork coverlids, and provided with large, luxurious pillows. O pillow! Has any one sung thy praises? When tired or sick, when discouraged or sad, what gives so much comfort as a pillow? Not your curled-hair brickbats; not your stiff, fluted, rasping covers, or limp cotton cases; but a good, generous, soft pillow, deftly cased in smooth, cool, untrimmed linen! There ’s a friend for you, a friend who changes not, a friend who soothes all your troubles with a soft caress, a mesmeric touch of balmy forgetfulness.

  I slept a dreamless sleep. Then I heard a voice borne toward me as if coming from far over a sea, the waves bringing it nearer and nearer.

  “Awake!” it cried; “awake! The night is far spent; the day is at hand. Awake!”

  I wondered vaguely over this voice as to what manner of voice it might be, but it came again, and again, and finally I awoke to find it at my side. The gray light of dawn came through the open windows, and Raymond was already up, engaged with a tub of water and crash towels. Again the chant sounded in my ears.

  “Very well, very well,” I said, testily. “But if you sing before breakfast you ’ll cry before night, Waiting Samuel.”

  Our host had disappeared, however, without hearing my flippant speech, and slowly I rose from my fragrant couch; the room was empty save for our two mounds, two tubs of water, and a number of towels hanging on nails. “Not overcrowded with furniture,” I remarked.

  “From Maine to Florida, from Massachusetts to Missouri, have I travelled, and never before found water enough,” said Raymond. “If waiting for the judgment-day raises such liberal ideas of tubs and towels, I would that all the hotel-keepers in the land could be convened here to take a lesson.”

  Our green hunting-clothes were soon donned, and we went out into the hall; a flight of broad steps led up to the roof; Roxana appeared at the top and beckoned us thither. We ascended, and found ourselves on the flat roof. Samuel stood with his face toward the east and his arms outstretched, watching the horizon; behind was Roxana, with her hands clasped on her breast and her head bowed: thus they waited. The eastern sky was bright with golden light; rays shot upward toward the zenith, where the rose-lights of dawn were retreating down to the west, which still lay in the shadow of night; there was not a sound; the Flats stretched out dusky and still. Two or three minutes passed, and then a dazzling rim appeared above the horizon, and the first gleam of sunshine was shed over the level earth; simultaneously the two began a chant, simple as a Gregorian, but rendered in correct full tones. The words, apparently, had been collected from the Bible:—

  “The heavens declare the glory of God—

  Joy cometh in the morning!

  In them is laid out the path of the sun—

  Joy cometh in the morning!

  As a bridegroom goeth he forth;

  As a strong man runneth his race.

  The outgoings of the morning

  Praise thee, O Lord!

  Like a pelican in the wilderness,

  Like a sparrow upon the house-top,

  I wait for the Lord.

  It is good that we hope and wait,

  Wait—wait.”

  The chant over, the two stood a moment silently, as if in contemplation, and then descended, passing us without a word or sign, with their hands clasped before them as though forming part of an unseen procession. Raymond and I were left alone upon the house-top.

  “After all, it is not such a bad opening for a day; and there is the pelican of the wilderness to emphasize it,” I said, as a heron flew up from the water, and, slowly flapping his great wings, sailed across to another channel. As the sun rose higher, the birds began to sing; first a single note here and there, then a little trilling solo, and finally an outpouring of melody on all sides,—land-birds and water-birds, birds that lived in the Flats, and birds that had flown thither for breakfast,—the whole waste was awake and rejoicing in the sunshine.

  “What a wild place it is!” said Raymond. “How boundless it looks! One hill in the distance, one dark line of forest, even one tree, would break its charm. I have seen the ocean, I have seen the prairies, I have seen the great desert, but this is like a mixture of the three. It is an ocean full of land,—a prairie full of water,—a desert full of verdure.”

  “Whatever it is, we shall find in it fishing and aquatic hunting to our hearts’ content,” I answered.

  And we did. After a breakfast delicious as the supper, we took our boat and a lunch-basket, and set out. “But how shall we ever find our way back?” I said, pausing as I recalled the network of runs, and the will-o’-the-wisp aspect of the house, the previous evening.

  “There is no other way but to take a large ball of cord with you, fasten one end on shore, and let it run out over the stern of the boat,” said Roxana. “Let it run out loosely, and it will float on the water. When you want to come back you can turn around and wind it in as you come. I can read the Flats like a book, but they ’re very blinding to most people; and you might keep going round in a circle. You will do better not to go far, anyway. I ’ll wind the bugle on the roof an hour before sunset; you can start back when you hear it; for it ’s awkward getting supper after dark.” With this musical promise we took the clew of twine which Roxana rigged for us in the stern of our boat, and started away, first releasing Captain Kidd, who was pacing his islet in sullen majesty, like another Napoleon on St. Helena. We took a new channel and passed behind the house, where the imported cattle were feeding in their little pasture; but the winding stream soon bore us away, the house sank out of sight, and we were left alone.

  We had fine sport that morning among the ducks,—wood, teal, and canvas-back,—shooting from behind our screens woven of rushes; later in the day we took to fishing. The sun shone down, but there was a cool September breeze, and the freshness of the verdure was like early spring. At noon we took our lunch and a siesta among the water-lilies. When we awoke we found that a bittern had taken up his position near by, and was surveying us gravely:—

  “‘The moping bittern, motionless and stiff,

  That on a stone so silently and stilly

  Stands, an apparent sentinel, as if

  To guard the water-lily,’”

  quoted Raymond. The solemn bird, in his dark uniform, seemed quite undisturbed by our presence; yellow-throats and swamp-sparrows also came in numbers to have a look at us; and the fish swam up to the surface and eyed us curiously. Lying at ease in the boat, we in our turn looked down into the water. There is a singular fascination in looking down into a clear stream as the boat floats above; the mosses and twining water-plants seem to have arbors and grottos in their recesses, where delicate marine creatures might live, naiads and mermaids of miniature size; at least we are always looking for them. There is a fancy, too, that one may find something,—a ring dropped from fair fingers idly trailing in the water; a book which the fishes have read thoroughly; a scarf caught among the lilies; a spoon with unknown initials; a drenched ribbon, or an embroidered handkerchief. None of these things did we find, but we did discov
er an old brass breastpin, whose probable glass stone was gone. It was a paltry trinket at best, but I fished it out with superstitious care,—a treasure-trove of the Flats. “‘Drowned,’” I said, pathetically, “‘drowned in her white robes—’”

  “And brass breastpin,” added Raymond, who objected to sentiment, true or false.

  “You Philistine! Is nothing sacred to you?”

  “Not brass jewelry, certainly.”

  “Take some lilies and consider them,” I said, plucking several of the queenly blossoms floating alongside.

  “Cleopatra art thou, regal blossom,

  Floating in thy galley down the Nile,—

  All my soul does homage to thy splendor,

  All my heart grows warmer in thy smile;

  Yet thou smilest for thine own grand pleasure,

  Caring not for all the world beside,

  As in insolence of perfect beauty,

  Sailest thou in silence down the tide.

  “Loving, humble rivers all pursue thee,

  Wasted are their kisses at thy feet;

  Fiery sun himself cannot subdue thee,

  Calm thou smilest through his raging heat;

  Naught to thee the earth’s great crowd of blossoms,

  Naught to thee the rose-queen on her throne;

  Haughty empress of the summer waters,

  Livest thou, and diest, all alone.”

  This from Raymond.

  “Where did you find that?” I asked.

  “It is my own.”

  “Of course! I might have known it. There is a certain rawness of style and versification which—”

  “That ’s right,” interrupted Raymond; “I know just what you are going to say. The whole matter of opinion is a game of ‘follow-my-leader’; not one of you dares admire anything unless the critics say so. If I had told you the verses were by somebody instead of a nobody, you would have found wonderful beauties in them.”

  “Exactly. My motto is, ‘Never read anything unless it is by a somebody.’ For, don’t you see, that a nobody, if he is worth anything, will soon grow into a somebody, and, if he is n’t worth anything, you will have saved your time!”

  “But it is not merely a question of growing,” said Raymond; “it is a question of critics.”

  “No; there you are mistaken. All the critics in the world can neither make nor crush a true poet.”

  “What is poetry?” said Raymond, gloomily.

  At this comprehensive question, the bittern gave a hollow croak, and flew away with his long legs trailing behind him. Probably he was not of an æsthetic turn of mind, and dreaded lest I should give a ramified answer.

  Through the afternoon we fished when the fancy struck us, but most of the time we floated idly, enjoying the wild freedom of the watery waste. We watched the infinite varieties of the grasses, feathery, lance-leaved, tufted, drooping, banner-like, the deer’s tongue, the wild-celery, and the so-called wild-rice, besides many unknown beauties delicately fringed, as difficult to catch and hold as thistle-down. There were plants journeying to and fro on the water like nomadic tribes of the desert; there were fleets of green leaves floating down the current; and now and then we saw a wonderful flower with scarlet bells, but could never approach near enough to touch it.

  At length, the distant sound of the bugle came to us on the breeze, and I slowly wound in the clew, directing Raymond as he pushed the boat along, backing water with the oars. The sound seemed to come from every direction. There was nothing for it to echo against, but, in place of the echo, we heard a long, dying cadence, which sounded on over the Flats fainter and fainter in a sweet, slender note, until a new tone broke forth. The music floated around us, now on one side, now on the other; if it had been our only guide, we should have been completely bewildered. But I wound the cord steadily; and at last suddenly, there before us, appeared the house with Roxana on the roof, her figure outlined against the sky. Seeing us, she played a final salute, and then descended, carrying the imprisoned music with her.

  That night we had our supper at sunset. Waiting Samuel had his meals by himself in the front room. “So that in case the spirits come, I shall not be there to hinder them,” explained Roxana. “I am not holy, like Samuel; they will not speak before me.”

  “Do you have your meals apart in the winter, also?” asked Raymond.

  “Yes.”

  “That is not very sociable,” I said.

  “Samuel never was sociable,” replied Roxana. “Only common folks are sociable; but he is different. He has great gifts, Samuel has.”

  The meal over, we went up on the roof to smoke our cigars in the open air; when the sun had disappeared and his glory had darkened into twilight, our host joined us. He was a tall man, wasted and gaunt, with piercing dark eyes and dark hair, tinged with gray, hanging down upon his shoulders. (Why is it that long hair on the outside is almost always the sign of something wrong in the inside of a man’s head?) He wore a black robe like a priest’s cassock, and on his head a black skull-cap like the Faust of the operatic stage.

  “Why were the Flats called St. Clair?” I said; for there is something fascinating to me in the unknown history of the West. “There is n’t any,” do you say? you, I mean, who are strong in the Punic wars! you, too, who are so well up in Grecian mythology. But there is history, only we don’t know it. The story of Lake Huron in the times of the Pharaohs, the story of the Mississippi during the reign of Belshazzar, would be worth hearing. But it is lost! All we can do is to gather together the details of our era,—the era when Columbus came to this New World, which was, nevertheless, as old as the world he left behind.

  “It was in 1679,” began Waiting Samuel, “that La Salle sailed up the Detroit River in his little vessel of sixty tons burden, called the Griffin. He was accompanied by thirty-four men, mostly fur-traders; but there were among them two holy monks, and Father Louis Hennepin, a friar of the Franciscan order. They passed up the river and entered the little lake just south of us, crossing it and these Flats on the 12th of August, which is St. Clair’s day. Struck with the gentle beauty of the scene, they named the waters after their saint, and at sunset sang a Te Deum in her honor.”

  “And who was Saint Clair?”

  “Saint Clair, virgin and abbess, born in Italy, in 1193, made superior of a convent by the great Francis, and canonized for her distinguished virtues,” said Samuel, as though reading from an encyclopædia.

  “Are you a Roman Catholic?” asked Raymond.

  “I am everything; all sincere faith is sacred to me,” replied the man. “It is but a question of names.”

  “Tell us of your religion,” said Raymond, thoughtfully; for in religions Raymond was something of a polyglot.

  “You would hear of my faith? Well, so be it. Your question is the work of spirit influence. Listen, then. The great Creator has sowed immensity with innumerable systems of suns. In one of these systems a spirit forgot that he was a limited, subordinate being, and misused his freedom; how, we know not. He fell, and with him all his kind. A new race was then created for the vacant world, and, according to the fixed purpose of the Creator, each was left free to act for himself; he loves not mere machines. The fallen spirit, envying the new creature called man, tempted him to sin. What was his sin? Simply the giving up of his birthright, the divine soul-sparkle, for a promise of earthly pleasure. The triune divine deep, the mysterious fiery triangle, which, to our finite minds, best represents the Deity, now withdrew his personal presence; the elements, their balance broken, stormed upon man; his body, which was once ethereal, moving by mere volition, now grew heavy; and it was also appointed unto him to die. The race thus darkened, crippled, and degenerate, sank almost to the level of the brutes, the mind-fire alone remaining of all their spiritual gifts. They lived on blindly, and as blindly died. The sun, however, was l
eft to them, a type of what they had lost.

  “At length, in the fulness of time, the world-day of four thousand years, which was appointed by the council in heaven for the regiving of the divine and forfeited soul-sparkle, as on the fourth day of creation the great sun was given, there came to earth the earth’s compassionate Saviour, who took upon himself our degenerate body, and revivified it with the divine soul-sparkle, who overcame all our temptations, and finally allowed the tinder of our sins to perish in his own painful death upon the cross. Through him our paradise body was restored, it waits for us on the other side of the grave. He showed us what it was like on Mount Tabor, with it he passed through closed doors, walked upon the water, and ruled the elements; so will it be with us. Paradise will come again; this world will, for a thousand years, see its first estate; it will be again the Garden of Eden. America is the great escaping-place; here will the change begin. As it is written, ‘Those who escape to my utmost borders.’ As the time draws near, the spirits who watch above are permitted to speak to those souls who listen. Of these listening, waiting souls am I; therefore have I withdrawn myself. The sun himself speaks to me, the greatest spirit of all; each morning I watch for his coming; each morning I ask, ‘Is it to-day?’ Thus do I wait.”

  “And how long have you been waiting?” I asked.

  “I know not; time is nothing to me.”

  “Is the great day near at hand?” said Raymond.

  “Almost at its dawning; the last days are passing.”

  “How do you know this?”

  “The spirits tell me. Abide here, and perhaps they will speak to you also,” replied Waiting Samuel.

  We made no answer. Twilight had darkened into night, and the Flats had sunk into silence below us. After some moments I turned to speak to our host; but, noiselessly as one of his own spirits, he had departed.

  “A strange mixture of Jacob Bœhmen, chiliastic dreams, Christianity, sun-worship, and modern spiritualism,” I said. “Much learning hath made the Maine farmer mad.”